


Gregstophe fic dump

by candiedsocks



Category: South Park
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 07:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9063166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candiedsocks/pseuds/candiedsocks
Summary: These are ficlets I wrote for tumblr prompts compiled into a single place. The ratings range but nothing porny yetedit; ch.3 got porny





	1. Chapter 1

There was a lot of work behind the scenes for their ‘outings’ to go off without a hitch. For being teenagers, they showed a ridiculous amount of dedication for their goals. Initially, it was Gregory that pushed for learning outside of the scope of Mole’s expertise. Guns only solved so many situations and most of them were actually made worse by their inclusion. Even so, for all his eloquent poise in such situations, Christophe was the first to see a need for Gregory to start training with weapons. It was a too-close knife fight that cemented the idea. Gregory, in Christophe’s mind, didn’t need the scars to teach him the importance of a good fighting technique or weapons experience. He would try to save him from that at least.

So there they were, near a dried up tailings pond. Gregory had at least worn hiking boots out, though they looked on the new side. Christophe distantly thought they must be hurting with the hour long walk, not even broken in as they were. Bitch deserved it for not having a broken-in pair. He stood behind him, suddenly reaching forward and pulling up the blond boy’s arms. “Non! Tu ne viser avec le canon! That is why you have sights, stupide.”

Gregory twisted forward, glowering at him. “This would be a great deal easier if you resisted turning it into a bilingual cursing spree.” He adjusted, aiming the pistol again. They had acquired a P5, Gregory taking an instant liking to the slim and compact design. He adjusted, dipping then straightening his head and aligning the sights. Christophe stood, still not minding the issue of personal distance. His breath was tickling Gregory’s neck, and Christophe could smell the slightest hint of lavender coming off of him. Gregory interrupted his budding thoughts of the pleasant smell by firing three shots, before lowering his aim. When he looked back, the smile was cock and self-assured, the grin showing off barely crooked teeth. “I’m a rather good aim, if I may say so.”

Christophe looked out, pulling up a cigarette as he did so. His stare was flat. Gregory wasn’t allowed to be good at this so quickly, but there was the proof—a bullet in each can, 62 yards, give or take, away. “Cheinne.” Christophe side-stepped and started a way to replace the cans.


	2. Butterscotch candies

Like many things in Christophe’s life, it was a singular event that changed his perception. For this particular subject, candy was previously a frivolous luxury he had no desire to make space for. The Jew was determined, it seemed, to find some sort of brand or flavor he could use for bartering– introduce it to Christophe, get him hungry for it, then exploit the new found weakness. He must have offered up at least two dozen, and they were barely into the second week of his new obsession . Christophe quickly suspected the only way to avoid diabetes or otherwise was to settle on a flavor and shut him up. It was that reasoning that led him to asking Gregory. Gregory, all smiles and coyness, replied ‘well, I like butterscotch. Would you like a taste?’ Gregory went to a corner, retrieving a treat from a hidden place. Christophe was treated to the most sensual removal of a candy wrapper he had ever experienced, Gregory locking eyes as he popped the treat into his mouth, wetting it with noisy swirls of his tongue. He crossed to him, hand moving to his cheek to draw him near, and delved in to press his lips to Cristophe’s. The kiss tasted buttery sweet, mixed with the subtle twinge of Earl Grey. Lips were caught, teeth clinked, and soon Christophe felt the candy pass. Gregory leaned away, eyes warm well he watched the result of his handy work. He didn’t bother asking his preference, leaving both candy and kiss with a satisfied hum.  
The next time the Jew, or anyone really, asked Christophe’s preference of confections, he would decline to answer, but he would hold the memory of butterscotch candies on soft lips as his favorite.


	3. punishment prompt

They had gotten in with fake IDs. As these things usually went, the actual job promised to be easier than the preparation. Getting decent enough IDs to pass had taken time and money. That was part of the reasoning behind Gregory insisting they purchase drinks, under the guise of blending in. It was his first alcohol beverage crafted behind a counter, and the blond boy drummed his fingers just once in excitement. Mole leaned back against the counter beside him, looking displeased and out of place. The drink was passed, Gregory dropping a fake card linked to a stolen account in exchange. They were starting a tab on Fernando Plinkett’s account, who had been foolish enough to leave credit applications unshredded in the wrong neighborhood. Gregory cared very little for that information, since the ID and the credit card had come in a package. It had cost him enough, anyways.

He turned, leaning back beside his partner. When he reached to pinch for the straw, eyes scanning the room, the Mole was watching him, stare growing flatter. The damned Brit could at least not drink like a fag. The way he was holding the straw and sipping at it like the damned fuufuu drink it was was bad enough as it just completed the ensemble. The cleanliness, the man-perfume, the Italian shoes, the clothes–he wanted to complain about the clothes, but they were both in club appropriate attire. The thought train derailed as his eyes dropped lower, but he quickly realized he was probably giving inappropriate attention to Gregory’s fine ass. Not that his ass was too fine, or anything. The Mole tightened his expression, settling on glaring instead of any ridiculous internal justification. Gregory leaned over, smelling like expensive cologne and Mai-tai, too close and breath too warm as he leaned over and label their target.  
“There.”

Their target was seated at a private table, four fairly attractive women seated around him, touching and flirting. Gregory leaned in, voice drawling despite the accent. “The old dog would choose a place like this.” While he was leaning away, he smirked, back bumping against the bar once again. His partner cast a flatter glance to him, watching him watch the lovely ladies. Gregory sat the quarter full glass down, pushing away and striding easily across the length of the room. The Mole watched him work, always in awe how he could manage to so seamlessly move between people, flatter and charm and give nothing away. He watched him as he welcomed himself at the table, shaking the target’s hand and casually throwing an arm around one of the ladies, chatting her up. By the time he had sat down, he probably already knew her name, some vague geographic location of upbringing, a whole host of other little facts that would have escaped anyone else. As he watched  
Gregory flirt his way into the conversation, both with the target and the floozy, he vaguely wondered if anyone else knew the blonde’s fear of spiders, knew how to read the tension in his shoulders to see how many days he had gone with troubled sleep, or what he looked like when truly comfortable or at rest. He scoffed, grinning and shaking his head as the girls were sent away, Gregory leaning back and giving him a pleased look. As the Mole made his way across to join him, he looked up, feeling the unease of being watched. He never slowed, nor broke stride, but the world seemed to slow down as he caught the black haired man toward the back of the room watching him. Probably some vampire-reject, he thought, except as he continued he felt the intensity. Someone passed, breaking the gaze, and the black haired man was gone. The world caught back up, the blaring music, the heat of too many bodies, and the vibrations beneath his feet. He tried to shake it  
off, stopping by the table and looking down as unamused and unimpressed as he could.Gregory sat, arm slung against the back of the chair, somehow looking like he belonged despite how it would be completely out of his preferences.  
“Robert has graciously offered us a private meeting upstairs.” He paused, voice smooth but threatening. Gregory looked to the man, who looked between confused and furious. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Sweltz? Please, don’t mind my friend. He’s a man of very few words–but he is terribly good at finding painful ways to end you.” Gregory scooted himself out of the booth only after Robert made to move. And to keep up appearances, his arm went over the man’s shoulders, looking jovial as he glided through the room. The Mole followed at a length, fighting back rolling his eyes.  
They passed through the club, taking the rounded stairs up to the top tier. Gregory had let his arm slid away, though he was still close. When they crossed into the back, Robert tried to break free, which resulted in the both of them working to slam him on the left side of the hallway, wrenching him back to slam into the right side. He was manhandled down, until they arrived at the private suite. The Mole took care of opening the door, kicking it with enough force so they could both be free to force him in. Gregory shut the door, as the Mole leaned in, kneeling over the man, intimidation seeming to be enough to keep him down. Gregory turned, the faux pleasant smile in place.  
“Mr. Sweltz… Robert, if I may. You missed an appointment with our client. And while we would hate to push ourselves into the middle of things, he insisted that we come speak to you personally about the matter. It’s terribly rude to disregard an engagement.” He walked closer to the man now seated on the floor, kneeling down as well. “There is a deed, an apartment building. We’re here to ensure it is signed over smoothly, being as you’ve already taken payment.”  
As Gregory was reaching into the waist-coat to retrieve the carefully folded paper, many things happened at once. The door was banged from the other side, and as both boys went to look back, Robert was reaching into his blazer, hand finding the gun easily. The four shots that fired through the door in the next second had the two boys rolling to the side. In the panic that followed, the Mole was looking to Gregory, back pressed against a night table. Gregory was looking at him, hunched and pressed back against the wall, eyes wide for that brief second before he fought the fear back down. The smaller details started to flood in; Robert had been hit, presumably multiple times though it was hard to distinguish, the growing spot of red on Gregory’s arm was almost another cause for panic, but he shook his head, lifting his hand away to reveal a graze–better than a gunshot wound, but worse than the nothing that should have happened. Before either of them could  
whisper harsh questions, the knob was turned, the door swinging open on Gregory’s side. The Mole froze, unable to see, multiple plans and escape routes running through his head, but instead of a flurry of gunfire, Gregory only muttered. “Bugger.”

The Mole held his breath, hearing the soft padding. Stepping around the door, a rather large rottweiler came into view, spotting him easily. His back pressed into the wall, the sight of teeth baring and aggression enough to render him glaring and, though he would hate to admit it, rather helpless.

~

Gregory was never someone to sit still. It wasn’t so much that he was hyperactive or needed the movement, but he needed to stay productive. So as he sat, in the silent room, bound to a chair with his limbs tied down against the legs of the chair, it only took a minute before he was moving. Less fidgeting and more calculated movements—testing the mobility of the chair, how far he could bring each limb up, or if he could break the wooden seat with tipping it. It was several minutes of silence, twisting arms and rotating shoulders and knees, before there was a soft shuffle from somewhere behind him. The blindfold left him feeling more vulnerable, but in reality, if he listened, he would know where and what it was. It was only minutely disconcerting when the footsteps were definitely human, and that they had been in the room for some time. Automatically, he straightened his back, taking in a calming breath. When they were crossing in front of him, he waited, before speaking calmly.

“I apologize if we’ve caused you any trouble. Mr. Sweltz backed out of a fairly large deal with our employer.”

There was a breathy chuckle in response, enough to set Gregory further on edge. “I know. A deceitful man if there ever was one. But the sort that can be bought. My kind of business partner. Or disposable business partner.” There was another breathy laugh following that, the man obviously finding it amusing that he fired four shots into the old man. Blindly, through a door, Gregory would recall. His voice was smooth, the kind that might be pleasant or charming to listen to in any other setting.

There was a pregnant pause after that, before Gregory felt a grip at his chin, his face forced upward. He strained, being pulled beyond comfort where he was bound to the chair. And just barely he would feel a thumb press to his cheekbone before the hand left.

“What were you? What ridiculous nickname? It was Canary, wasn’t it—Mole and Canary.” The footsteps were heading to the left, the speaker compensating for the distance by raising his voice. “You killed a man with a spoon. Crushed his windpipe.” It was a job in Bangkok, and Gregory had been cornered—it wasn’t intentional, but it had gotten them a few jobs on notoriety alone. Another pause, before the voice was directed at him, small clanging almost lost in the talking. “I thought it was creative. Though your partner takes on the messier role, doesn’t he?” Another small clang. “Is there significance? In the name… Mole is known as one of the younger mercenaries. He’s been around a while. You must have joined him afterward.” The voice took on a condescending tone. “Do you warn him of danger? Sing him a pretty song?” The footsteps finally came closer, stopping in front of him. “A domesticated songbird whose only useful feature is sacrifice.”

Gregory finally opened his mouth to speak, to tell him it was a joke between them, more to do with the vocal abilities and blond hair, but he was struck abruptly in the face, head jolted to the side. He let out a noise cough, feeling a throbbing burn in his lip where it had been split. He tongued at the wound before bringing his face back up, smiling despite the throb. “Forgive me, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Damien.” He offered it up so nonchalant that it had Gregory’s pleasant facade falter. Damien struck him again, sending his head swinging. There was a moment where he vainly struggled to bring his arms up. “Back on topic. I want to know who employed you.” Gregory brought his head back up, flinching at nothing, trying to brace for another blow. None came and Damien continued. “You won’t tell me. I know you won’t. I know men’s hearts, and you… You’re very proud. You come into this work expecting pain. You steel yourself against the thought, so that even the exaggerations won’t frighten you.” He struck him this time, sending his head to the side. Damien came closer, knee dropping to press in the space between Gregory’s thighs. He reached forward, tugging at the already crooked tie. “I can punish you though. So that you will know to avoid crossing me again.” He pulled the tie loose, discarding it off a hooked finger. When his hands returned, they went to the buttons of his shirt. “But hurting you, striking your body… That won’t be punishment. That will validate you and your silly mortal notions of some grander fight. This calls for a different approach. It will be pleasure that breaks you.”

Gregory flinched, violently as he could bound. The weight at the front of the chair kept him from being able to send himself back to escape. “The bloody fuck are you playing at? Piss off-” Damien caught his chin, forcing it shut and pushing his head up to strain back. The complaints were muffled, but they continued. He reached lower, palming between his thighs. “So prideful. So concerned with standards and perceptions. What will you think when you grow hard a man’s touch?” Gregory fought, in as much as he could, legs straining to close with little to show for his effort, head twisting in an attempt to get free with no success. Damien squeezed over him, causing him to jump in his seat. “By the time you’re begging to be fucked, I’m sure your partner will think very little of you.” Abruptly, the contact was gone. Gregory sagged forward, wheezing, waiting for something else. But the room felt empty, and he was left half-hard, mortified, and dreading the next few hours.

~

Christophe tested his wrists, straining his weight onto them. They ached, but it was better to be actively trying to escape than to be left suspended by his arms. His feet brushed the floor, but only barely. He extended his fingers, adjusting his stance. He was blindfolded, tightly enough that shouldering at the cloth did nothing. There had been no movement in the room, so the sudden strike on his back, splitting the soft fabric of thin polyester shirt he had been coerced into. He hissed, back tightening. Another strike, hitting just below, licked at his side. This time, he groaned, the noise bordering on irritated rage. The next five blows came quickly, leaving no moment for reprieve. And in that state of his body desperately trying to avoid the blows, they moved around him, the final one wrapping around his side. He hung there, panting and tense. The last one at his slide was bleeding, creating an obnoxious tickle behind the stinging pain. He was left with the pain and uncertainty before the front of his shirt was tugged forward.

“Christophe. Ma Chienne.” He recognized Damien’s voice, finally connecting it as who had been watching him before. “It’s been too long. You never wrote.” The blindfold was tugged away, leaving the Mole to stare rather shocked at the man before him. Damien smirked, savoring that expression before shrugging. “Your target was selling me a profitable area. I was going to build an orphanage there or something. The apartment complex was condescended, but it is in a rather valuable area for trafficking. Close enough to three major transportations, and at least a dozen stations.” He stepped back, crossing to the table to set the switch down. He glanced back, the silence as much of a prompt as Mole would get.

“Où est mon partenaire?? We can be out of your stupide club.” The tone matched the stoney irritated expression, and Mole looked away, muttering. “I said we should not take zis job.” He scoffed, as if indignation was acceptable while hanging from his arms.

Damien was amused, listening. His eyes briefly shut, appreciating the smoother tones of the long missed accent. They had met, one tragic accident long ago. And though they were never quite friends, Damien considered him a confidant. Not to mention they bonded over their shared hatred of the Holy Trinity.

The Mole sighed, rolling his head to face Damien. “Suffit. Let me down, beetch!”

“Are you testy about the whipping? You did assault one of my patrons.” Damien headed right back to him, catching him by the waistband and pulling him forward. He strained, trying to stay footed, but the stretch left him on his toes. “You have little room to demand anything right now. I’m not very pleased with you.” The mood was lowering, Damien finding the irritation bubbling up again. He gave another tug to the waistband, further rendering him off-balance. “Your partner is in the other room, frightened I am going to rape him. I thought you’d be amused, given how you were leering.”

There was a creeping blush to his cheeks as Mole listened, rage and embarrassment at getting caught combined. He settled on a harsher glare, finally pivoting his hips and striking out with a kick. He caught Damien in the inner thigh, hard enough to send him back stumbling with a curse. “Ta gueule! Zat is not amusing, trouduc!”

Damien returned, eyes flaring. The Mole had no way to stop the backhanded blow, but he braced for it. Damien caught his chin, nails biting in as he forced it up. The strength Damien used to wrench him free from the ceiling was enough to leave him reeling, arms released only because the cords themselves had broken. When he hit the ground, it was without the support of his pained arms, face hitting with a stunted impact. “I was going to offer you a nice evening. But it seems so much time in your field of choice has left you lacking manners.” The Mole let out a strangled noise as he was wrenched up to his knees, with his hair no less. “I think you’re due in for some punishment as well.”

~

A good two hours had left Gregory’s nerves shot. He strained up, again, but still found no purchase in the bindings. His hands were all but numb now, the tips of his fingers to his palms felt chilled, his wrists burning with the pain of being rubbed through the sleeves.

It was when the door finally opened that Gregory sat up, setting himself tall in the seat. The shuffle was different this time as it neared him. The new commer reached, and catching the blindfold with a pinch, lifted it away. Gregory shook his head away with a wince, but instead of a blow, his arms were released. It took a bit for him to focus on the thin looking blond boy, who would step back and wait for him to release his own legs. He did so, watching him wearily. “Am I to be released?”

The boy stopped smiling, shaking his head instead. “No, sir. Damien wanted me to come collect you. If you please.” Gregory caught the accent easily enough, and as he rose back up, shifting his newly freed legs, he raised a curious eyebrow. “You’re from London?”

The boy bounced his head, ushering Gregory to his feet by pulling up his arm. “Small town a bit north of there. But your right on. Almost. Close enough to the greater London area.”

Gregory was left to grip the wooden seat, body complaining at being forced in such a rigid position for so long. He stumbled only a little, sighing. “So I am summoned by Damien then? Unbound? This is promising, right?”

“Oh, right-oh! He told me to tell you that by the end of the evening, you’ll both be back out on your way. But he also has a tendency to give false hope. So I wouldn’t shed my worries just yet.”

Gregory said nothing, walking on his own once they reached the hallway. He tried to keep track of the pathway, three doors down and a turn to the left, a short staircase and the second door to the left. The boy beside him opened the door for him, Gregory giving him a courtesy nod of thanks as he passed.

He was expecting a lot of things, painful or threatening things, but a bound partner on the lush bed ahead of him was not one of them. “What is this?” He disregarded caution, rushing forward. He stopped short at the bed, catching the Mole’s uneasy gaze. Before even bothering with the bindings on his arms or his legs, he reached behind his head, unfastening the ball-gag, casting it aside.

The Mole wanted to reprimand him, to tell him off for being so foolish and not even bothering to ensure safety before entering, but Damien was making his presence known, hands sliding up Gregory’s shoulders. The blond boy wrenched away, turning sharply, ending up half-seated on the bed.

“I explained the rules to Christophe.” Damien didn’t miss the betrayed expression that crossed Gregory’s features, nor the second-long suspicious glance he cast down to the bound boy on the bed before flatly glaring. “I hope you’ll agree to my terms. I’ll release you, of course.”

Gregory’s look of confusion that followed went from Damien down to the Mole, giving him a look, waiting. The Mole bit at his lip, scowling deeply, glaring to Damien, before returning with as forced a flat expression as he could muster. “You need to let me fuck you. I cannot use my ‘and. If you do not let me, there is a pack of dogs downstairs that will kill me. And I will die.”

Gregory listened, the confusion giving way quickly to something else. His eyebrows knitted up, mouth pulled up in an aghast sort of smirk, but he listened, nodding. Finally, he looked up to Damien. “You’re mental.”

Damien smiled indulgently, before swinging out, the back of his hand colliding with Gregory’s jaw for the fourth time that evening, sending him dropping onto the bed, hand going to his face this time. He sat up, giving a fiery glance back. “I’ll find many uses for you if you refuse to listen. I’ll flay you slowly until you beg for death, and I will deny you.”

Gregory held his face, before looking to his partner. “You seem to know each other. Is he serious.” When the other nodded in response, Gregory sighed, acting rather put out by the whole notion. He pushed himself back up, eying Damien. “I suppose you’ll insist on watching?”

“I plan on participating.”

~

Gregory had insisted on the Mole’s release, swaying Damien only after stuttering that he hadn’t the foggiest idea of how to bed a man and if he didn’t want a messy show. Gregory took care in setting aside his clothes, while the Mole shrugged the tattered shirt away. When Gregory glanced back with worry, he tried to wave him off, eyes dropping to the bared legs, underwear just barely visible beyond the hem of the shirt. The blonde flushed, turning away.

Damien stopped them both with a clearing of his throat. “Get on the bed.” He spoke to Gregory, who glowered at him.

He sat, pausing long enough to catch a follow-up glare. He turned, laying back, head resting into the pillows, arms folded over his stomach, and his ankles crossed. He looked tense and uncomfortable, and the Mole looked down, eyes roaming over, catching the details of strain and tension. When Damien made a hooking motion with his fingers, sitting forward in anticipation, the Mole scoffed, stepping forward. He crawled over onto the bed, knees shifting around Gregory’s legs. He stayed like that, locking gazes. Finally, he nodded. “I need to take it off. Vos sous-vêtements.” When Gregory flushed, he winced, reaching down to bat his hands away. He ignored the glare, pushing the shirt tails up and out of the way. He didn’t mean to, but he drug his fingertips down, over the sharp rise of bone and to the elastic waistband, displaying some brand name that had little place on men’s underwear. He made the mistake of looking up, fingers hooking in and drawing them down. He desperately tried to drive the image of Gregory wincing, so thoroughly uncomfortable, as he brought the undergarments down, shifting back to discard them.

Gregory shifted, head still facing away. The blush, by this time, stained his shoulders. He swallowed, rolling his head back, wearing the fading look of bravery.

Damien, still seated in the chair, leaned back. He rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, resting his chin down. “There’s a bit of lube there. Not too much. Should be enough for a first time though.” He added the last sentence fondly.

The Mole listened, eyes not leaving Gregory. He scoffed, the noise purely a presentation. When he shifted forward, he was forced to bend low, reaching for the lube and retrieving it. It was those few seconds, where Gregory’s gaze shifted to uncertainty, where his mouth dropped open and his eyebrows lifted, that really killed him. Killing Damien and fleeing was suddenly an option, despite how absurd going up against the anti-Christ may be. Somehow, as he was pouring the lube onto his fingers, he felt like he should say something. “Zis will be like when you were shot, no? You whine like a little beetch, and I had my finger in you.” He sneered at him, but the effect was as he had hoped. Gregory looked up, the uncertainty fading into annoyed amusement. He tried to be casual as he spread the blonde’s legs, the back of his hand batting at him as a singal to. The uncertainty returned in those blue eyes, but the Mole forced himself to look away, tilting his head down and bringing his fingers between his legs. “Just like zat time.” He didn’t know how much force he would need, and when he brought two slick fingertips to the hole, it constricted. Any other time and it would have been moderately arousing, but the situation demanded detachment, and he pushed, the two fingers sinking in to the knuckle.

Gregory arched, face tightening up. His body rolled down, as close to writing as he’d ever gotten, but he was liftng his head, the fiery glare focused on the Mole this time. “Be bloody careful! I need that later, you know.”

The Mole scoffed, eyes narrowing and lip curling a little. He reached, pushing him back down by the abdomen. “Fine, I will treat you as a delicate femme. Would you like me to stroke your pussy while I am down here?” The normal edge to such an insult was lacking, but he still sounded gruff. He spoke as he started to work the fingers out and back in, shallow thrusts allowing him to get a little deeper each time.

Gregory tensed, hands balling in the sheets as his knees bent, legs pulling up a little. He strained up, eyes opening to look up at him with a watery glare. “Piss off. I just …asked for some consideration. It is-” He broke back, inhaling a trembling breath. “It is my arse you’re tearing apart, you brute.”

At least he was still being a priss, the thought offering some comfort as the Mole continued to work the two fingers in and out of him. He was in to the second knuckle by that point, and pushed just a little deeper. He took his time, allowing Gregory to accommodate the stretch.

Once the clench relented, he let his fingers sink in. He glanced up, silently berating himself for doing so. He caught sight of Gregory’s mouth falling open, of the twitch in his jaw, and the not-quite-pained strain in his body. His other hand dropped to the bed then, supporting him as he leaned in, bending his arm to thrust it a little quicker. There was a spark of something that shouldn’t be there when Gregory bared his teeth, a small noise slipping out, his body rocking with force of the thrusts. The Mole looked down, working his ring finger in, watching as it was pressed flush against the stretched pink skin. This was all sorts of wrong and all sorts of dangerous, but there was a definite stirring as he watched the three digits sink in, hearing the choked gasp.

He was careful to avoid anything, knowing at least enough about anatomy that if he pushed too hard, Gregory’s self control would shatter. But the reaction was there—the uncut cock, long and shapely like the rest of him, resting half-hard against the blonde’s belly. By the time he was withdraw his fingers, he had his own reaction. He stalled, looking over the sight below him. Gregory rolled his head, focusing with effort, eyes intensified, a lovelier shade of blue because of what he had done to him. He quickly quelled the thought, and reached forward, gathering up his knees. “It will 'urt. Not as bad as a gun shot.” The Mole grinned down, Gregory giving one breathy laugh before nodding dropping his head back with a long calming breath as his legs were pushed up his his knees. Gregory, though he didn’t mean to, glanced down, the sight of the Mole working himself to hardness had him flushing. He saw him shift, and dropped his head back, trying to brace for it.

“Christ-” Gregory’s voice broke, body arching at the push and burning intrusion. His hips lifted, face screwing up. It was much, much worse than the fingers, and the pain rendered him trembling. “I didn’t… didn’t think you were so big.” Gregory barely managed it above a whisper, but it was loud enough.

The Mole looked up, stilling. “What.” His shoulders dropped a little, thumbs pressing in a little to the inside of his knees.

Gregory looked, blinking and focusing. “Oh-uhm. You—you just, you never seemed so… very big.” He spoke uncertain, distracted with the pain. The last words died in a wince, Gregory’s head tipping back.

The Mole sat, fighting back being stunned. Even when on his back, legs spread, Gregory somehow managed to be a prick. He started to sink in further, Gregory arching off of the bed a little. He backed up, pushing again. “You need to relax, chienne. Or else it will 'urt more.” Gregory nodded, though the Mole figured he wasn’t paying full attention. He cast a glance to Damien finally, finding the smug bastard looking absolutely pleased with himself.

After a minute or two of small movements, the desire to fuck a plaint willing hole just barely manageable, Gregory reached forward, blindly finding his hand and squeezing it. The nod was as much signal as he needed. The Mole, by that time, was trembling with the strain of having kept from moving.

When he started to fuck him, the movements were slow, Gregory’s breath coming out ragged and stuttered. When his body finally relaxed, the tension draining away, it felt amazing. Gregory, though he fought to not show it, would feel the evasive shocks of white hot pleasure. And the tight warmth was beyond any late-night fap session would ever compare. There were things they wanted to say, but the words never quite blossomed. They tuned out the audience, taking pleasure in each other. The small intimate touches, Gregory’s hand drifting to the Mole’s wrist, or a gentle stroke of the thumb at the crevice of the knee, cementing the reality of it. They both felt the edge drawing closer, and were so caught up they both missed the bed dipping.

Damien reached, unabashed, for the Mole’s thigh. When he flinched and started to turn, Damien would abruptly shove him forward, hand at his lower back. His fingers slid, slick with lube, and sunk in three at a time. The Mole arched sharply, hips jutting forward, in turn burying himself to the hilt into Gregory, who twisted, hands flying up to grab at what flesh they could. As Damien finger fucked him, roughly, the Mole was forced into Gregory, tight and hot and twitching now around him. Gregory gripped at his arm, nails biting in to the flesh.

Damien kept his fingers in only long enough to feel the squeeze start to relent. He shifted to his knees, edging himself behind the two trapped bodies below him and guided himself in. The Mole was grunting, obviously pained, enough so that his head dipped, Gregory shifting his arms up to hold his shoulders instead.

Minutes passed before Damien was dropping his head back, swallowing thickly. He rotated his hips forward, pushing the Mole deeper into Gregory, both of them groaning and gasping in turn. From there, at the tail end of the three, Damien watched as he started to move. He kept high on his knees for that purpose, thoroughly enjoying the writhing show beneath him. The pace was still slow, the final inch of the push quickened slightly with a quick snap. He kept them pressed together as he started to pick up the pace, admiring how the both of them still tried to keep some semblance of control through this. He reached with his other hand, pushing Gregory’s knee up, his body dipping low to brush against the Mole’s back. And like that, he started thrusting, deep and fast, sending them both rocking. Gregory finally shifted an arm up around the back the Mole’s neck, clutching at his hairline, hard enough to sting. The Mole, caught between the pounding from behind and the friction in front, moaned into the sweaty, pale flesh.

Gregory forced a hand between their flush bodies, really only managing to squeeze and stroke once before he was arching sharply, body going tight and rigid as he reached his peak. In turn, with the sudden clench, the Mole released himself, buried deep, mouth moving wordlessly into Gregory’s neck.

Damien continued to move, pushing them both through it it.

Rather than finding his own end, he let them finish before pulling out. He, at least, was far from done. While the two lay panting, the Mole collapsed onto Gregory, who held him loosely, Damien was shifting up to collect a towel.

After allowing them to clean off, it was easy enough to convince them to go again, the drive of youthful lust enough to have Gregory pushing Christophe down to take him. Damien never strayed far, always in some kind of contact, stroking, petting, or fucking. It was only after finding out that in the midst of things, Gregory had a tendency to suck on whatever was pressed into his mouth, and the Mole had a fondness for leaving marks, that the two of them were left. Damien, exiting the room, left an open invitation for the two to return.

It was at least morning when Gregory finally found the strength to speak, voice raspy from the night. “I think we may need to talk about this.”

The Mole, laying on his front, raised his eyebrows in silent question before grunting a little. He finally cracked an eye after several seconds of silence, showing he was paying attention.

Gregory was watching him when he finally looked; the expression was tired but patient. “Later.” He pushed himself up, body painful in places he couldn’t imagine to be.

The gathering of clothing was painful, requiring moving sore and stiff limbs. More than that, it was the limping out that hurt, pride already beaten and dragging behind them.

It was a few days later that the conversation took place, Gregory actually being the one to suggest casual sex, since they were both introduced to something thoroughly distracting and stirring feelings that were unlikely to cease any time soon. At some point, Christophe stopped being the Mole except on the field. Names were exchanged in soft tones in the mornings after. Both remained private and closed people, bordering on paranoid, but the trust was intensified. And though neither cared to admit it, they were thankful for the small joys. Though they did try to avoid it, Damien made himself known, insisting that he needed to keep them sinning to ensure their company in the afterlife.

**Author's Note:**

> I used google translate because three years of French and i still suck.


End file.
